


away it goes

by mermaidism



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Grace Burgess Lives, F/M, Gen, Sexual Tension, grace is a badass and she always has been, no pink-wearing socialite will she ever be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 03:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaidism/pseuds/mermaidism
Summary: Grace doesn't leave England. She stays and works for the Crown."you and i are monsters,we'll not find another,cannot be together,lest we eat each other"-alright, keaton henson





	away it goes

_And there it goes, Grace…away it goes…_

She stands on the platform, trying to shake the words from her head; trying to forget the shape of his mouth and the feeling of his hard hands against her waist. She knows already that he is not going to come.

She’d risked it all for nothing, then. Her life, her work, her loyalty to King and country, her father’s memory…she’d thrown the die for a chance at something like love and in the end—here at the bitter, bitter end—it had all come to nothing.

_Now you’ve seen me, _he had said once, breathless and wearing death like a coat.

_And you’ve seen me._

Well, he’d well and truly seen her now. Seen her and turned her away. So it goes.

Tommy Shelby. She wishes she knew how to hate him.

There are footsteps on the platform—brisk, businesslike, heavy.

She knows when she turns around that it will be Campbell standing there; hulking and hungry. She cannot believe that she ever let him stand so close. Instinctively, her hands close on her purse. The revolver is still there. Of course it is; she will never take it out.

Campbell’s eyes are black and hot and the passing trains set her golden hair to dancing. Even before it happens, she knows he will raise his gun; just as she knows he will use it. He will shoot her dead. She gave her heart to his enemy and he cannot abide it. Well, let him mourn the girl he thought she was. She killed that girl herself. She is something different now; new, monstrous. Her teeth are sharp.

In the end, it is easy; just a little pressure against a tiny metal mechanism. A shot rings out in the nearly-empty station. It echoes like church bells. Like whispers in a cathedral. The trains pass on in steam and silence and the inspector lies flat on his back in a pool of blood the color of a broken heart, a small caliber bullet lodged deep in his cracked-open skull.

Grace Burgess is gone.

XXX

The inquiry is swift and haphazard—sloppy, even. But then, the inspector was not exactly well-liked and the Birmingham police are all too happy to be rid of him. They say it was the IRA who did for him at last, and if this is not the truth, it will become the truth soon enough. In Irish pubs across the country, glasses are raised to every man who claims to have been the death of Chester Campbell. Upon its return to Belfast, his pine box is pelted with rotten vegetables by the general public and there are no words spoken when it is finally returned to the earth. Frankly, she is surprised Campbell’s remains made it to Ireland at all. When she cannot sleep, she wonders sometimes if he knows. Surely he must. There is nothing that happens in Small Heath that Thomas Shelby does not hear of. She wonders if he opened that bottle of champagne when he learned of Campbell’s fate, if he toasted her name in spite of himself and all that passed between them.

“Enough,” she whispers sharply to herself. Her fingers find the thin scar just below her hairline. “It is in the past.”

When she finally drifts back to sleep, she will dream of the Garrison anyway.

XXX

She works in the office of the Home Secretary now. No more pulling drinks, no more singing, no more double, triple, quadruple-checking Arthur’s atrocious adding-up. She answers telephones and dictates letters. She pours tea and sorts the mail and opens office doors for somber men in somber suits. She nods and smiles and lowers her eyes. Then she goes back to her desk and tries not to scream.

“Miss Burgess, is it?”

She starts and misses a key. She’ll have to pull the page and start all over again. It has been a long time since anyone called her by that name. She looks up from her typewriter, half expecting to see a long black coat and peaked hat. It is only a short, official-looking man in spectacles. He carries a briefcase and is watching her expectantly.

“Actually, it’s Dunn, sir. Grace Dunn.” She is still soft-spoken and he has to lean closer to hear her over the clacking of typewriters and shrill telephones.

“Ah. Yes. The file did say…forgive me, Miss, er-Dunn. Would you be so kind as to stop by the Colonial Secretary’s office tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock sharp, if you please. Mr. Churchill will be expecting you.”

“Mr. Winston Churchill?”

“Yes, that’s right. Ten o’clock. I’ve already worked it out with the Home Secretary, so there will be no fuss about missing your shift. Good day, then, Miss Dunn. Until tomorrow.”

The man tips his hat and is gone.

Grace Dunn sits where he left her, feeling her heart beat for what feels like the first time in two long years.

XXX

The vague industrial orange glow of her cigarette is the only light in the flat. She sits at the spindly little table, staring at the papered wall and thinking. She has much to consider. Churchill’s plan is bold and devilishly tricky. She’ll be lucky to still have a pulse at the end of it. And yet. The temptation to see him again is strong. Her fingers betray what she feels for him as they drift absentmindedly to the scar on her temple.

He sent her a letter back when there was something like hope for them. She keeps it still, pressed between her shirtwaists. When the memories become too choking she pulls it out but it brings her little comfort. The coin must have fallen against her for he has sent no word since. The last time she saw him, _the last time she kissed him_, she can’t help thinking, she said she was going to America, and for a while she had planned to do just that. But the boat came and went and Grace Burgess—now Dunn—stayed where she was. There was nothing for her on that continent. It was all in Birmingham.

All this was to say that he would not be looking for her. If she was careful, he need never know she was back; not until it was too late. Then she would be free to betray him one more time.

The cigarette burns down and she crushes it against a silver ashtray.

_Yes,_ she thinks. _It just might work._

XXX

And so Grace Dunn returns to the service of the Crown. This time, she will observe and report and act where she deems appropriate. Churchill has installed her as a secretary in the Birmingham police offices, but this time her duties extend far beyond tea and typewriters. This time, it is her intimate knowledge of Thomas Shelby that she has been hired for. The intimate knowledge that will provide Winston Churchill with an assassin, a government-sanctioned red right hand. She will not make herself known to the Shelby clan; it is unlikely they have forgotten the events of 1919 and even less likely they have forgiven. She will work from the shadows, she will provide insight and analysis and then, when every intricate moving part has been angled into position; then and only then will she be authorized to make contact.

Well, she never was any good at following orders. Too much curiosity. Too little fear.

She leans back in her chair and taps her pen against her wristwatch. She smiles blandly at Sergeant Moss in the desk opposite. He scowls and returns to his newspaper. The police station is buzzing like a hive of black-uniformed honey bees. She feels at home here. Everywhere she looks, she can't help but think of her father. His photograph watches her, all unsmiling. _It’s a job, Grace-girl, _he seems to say. _It’s just a job. Do the job._

She will try.

Oh yes, she will try.

XXX

Night.

It is raining as she has only ever seen it rain in Birmingham. It pools in the gutters and turns the world black and wet as blood on concrete. The great furnaces of Small Heath stutter in the downpour but do not go out. They never go out. They burn too hot. She feels a kind of kinship to them as she strides these streets she can never expunge from her memory. A great piece of iron shifts and sparks explode against the darkness. She starts like a high-strung horse; like the white horse Thomas Shelby loved for a day before putting a bullet between its eyes. That may well be his own fate this night. The Birmingham coppers stationed in Small Heath reported the posh men in linen suits and the grand cars that afternoon. Moss was all for letting the Italians mind their own business, but Grace is no stranger to the games of violent men. She can only hope they are not too late.

She turns the corner, the last corner, the place where the past and present collide; and there he is. Her past. Her present. Herself. He kneels bleeding, almost skeletal in his agony, a machine pistol against his head. He is all black and white and red. He is still the most beautiful dangerous thing she has ever seen.

“Finish him off,” the Italian says.

The gun is already in her hand. A shot explodes and her aim is true. The alley is pandemonium. Italians curse and flee or curse and fall. Some try to return fire until the police whistles start to scream. Empty casings chime like loose change against the cobblestones and still the rain falls with a vengeance. Her yellow hair is plastered to her neck and her eyes are wild. She cannot know it, but she looks like he did on that night when he let her sing on a chair; the night he told her that his heart was already broken.

“I think your chamber’s empty, Miss,” says Sergeant Moss in that ingratiating way of his.

The alley is empty but for one man, more dead than alive. The silence is suddenly deafening. She is still firing, the trigger snapping harmlessly.

“Keep people from coming down to look,” she gasps. She lowers the empty gun, trembling like a ghost returned to its body. “I can’t be seen here. Not yet.”

“So what does Mr. Churchill have planned for our Mister Shelby?” asks Moss lightly. “Do we leave him here for someone to find or finish him off ourselves? Or perhaps you’d like to comfort him, Miss. There always was a soft spot in him for whores and barmaids.”

If she had been listening and had a live round yet in her gun, Moss may not have lived to see the morning. But Grace is already moving toward the broken man with the broken heart as if there was no other choice in the world and she does not hear.

“Tommy.”

The word shimmers like rainwater; like something alive.

His eyes are swollen nearly to slits and he cannot see, but he turns slow as midwinter toward the sound of her voice. For a moment she thinks he will speak. She thinks he will reach for her. She thinks he will know her. He stares, sightless, then turns his face away. In another life she could press him to her heart and scream her grief and rage at the night. In another life she could touch him; skin to skin and lips to lips, but not in this one. In this one, she has forsaken the right.

“Get him to a hospital,” she orders and her voice is hard and clear.

Without another word, she turns and is gone from the alley; out into the rain where she knows that her heart too is already broken.

XXX

“What the devil’s name did you think you were doing?” Mr. Winston Churchill is screaming at her through the telephone’s receiver.

“Sir, I only--” she tries to protest, but she is cut off by more cursing and indistinct yelling. She holds the receiver away from her ear and rests her chin in her hands.

Across the way, Sergeant Moss smiles nastily at her.

“Got yourself in a spot of bother with the big man, have you?” he asks mildly.

Grace is fairly certain it was Moss himself who brought the events of last night to the Colonial Secretary’s attention in the first place. She had pulled rank. She had presumed to command his precinct. It was the only way to get the police to come with her.

“Oh he’ll stop yelling in a bit,” she replies. She cannot keep the edge out of her voice. “And then he’ll thank me for keeping his man alive. And _then_, I expect he’ll be calling _you _to give me whatever support I require until this operation has been concluded.”

Moss looks as though he has just been force fed dynamite.

“Agent Dunn? Agent Dunn?” the telephone is shrieking. Grace returns the receiver to her ear.

“Yes Mr. Churchill, sir?”

“All this bother with the London gangs; I’m afraid we’ll have to bring forward the original timeline discussed. Can’t have Shelby killed by a fucking Italian before he gets our job done.”

Her heart struggles to stay in her ribcage.

“Sir, are you asking me to make contact?”

“Yes, I think you’d better. You’re certain you can get him to comply?”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice sounds strange and faraway. “I know him, sir. I know how to manage him.”

“Then do it. Oh, and Agent Dunn?”

“Yes sir?”

“Well done keeping Shelby alive.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says. Moss catches her eye and she forces a grim smile.

The line clicks and goes dead.

Moments later, the telephone on Moss’s desk begins to screech like a banshee.

XXX

She has never liked hospitals. Her mother used to pack giant hampers full of sandwiches and pies and biscuits to bring to patients back home in Galway. She said it was their duty to help those less fortunate than themselves. Sometimes, Grace would be dragged along and made to hand out sweets to the little sick children. There was a cloud of despair that hung over them even as they sucked on their lollipops and toffees, all enormous eyes and frail limbs, marked for death.

Her red coat is like a splash of blood, vital and alive against the sterile white halls of the Birmingham general hospital.

“Relation?” the nurse at the desk had asked without looking up.

“We’re going to be married,” she’d said. It didn’t even feel like a lie.

She stands outside his door, fighting to control her pulse. The doorknob is cold. It burns her hand. She twists and pushes and there he is. Tommy Shelby—what’s left of him, anyway.

For a long time, all they can do is stare at each other, drunk with looking and longing and regret. She is first to break the silence.

“You look like Hell spat you out.”

If it didn’t hurt so much, he might have smiled.

“You only ever promised me half an hour in Heaven.” Even his voice sounds bruised. “You though, Grace, you look just the way I remember.”

She looks down. This was the wrong way to start. Too light. Too hopeful. There is no hope for either of them. She is not here to help him, or hold him, or apologize for the terrible things she has done to him. She is here to do another terrible thing. Time to get on with it.

“Three nights ago, a man was murdered in Montague Street. His body was found in a shallow grave by the Oxfordshire constabulary. That man’s name was Eamonn Duggan. You killed him, Tommy.”

His jaw is clenched now. A muscle jumps in his forehead.

“So you’re not here to say hello, then, eh Grace?” His one good eye is hard and clear as diamond; it cuts her. He sees her true.

“No Tommy.” She’s sorry for it. She really is.

He can’t laugh. His bottom lip is split and swollen. He can’t stop her from sitting in the chair beside the bed. He can’t help the way he follows the lean lines of her body like a man dying of hunger. Grace reaches for the cigarettes on his bedside table and puts one between her lips to light it. If she closes her eyes, they could be back in the Garrison. She keeps them open wide.

“I am here as part of a carefully organized plan, under the direct supervision of the Colonial Secretary. We know you killed Duggan. We can have you charged with murder at any time; corroborated with two witness statements. You will be hanged.”

His blue eye never leaves her face. The cigarette smoke hangs between them like a curtain. Like all the things they’ll never say.

“Mr. Churchill has a job for you, Tommy. I’m here to see it done. You belong to us now.”

Her voice trembles on the words. _You belong to me. You always have._

“It was you killed the inspector, wasn’t it?” he says suddenly, as if he has been holding onto this question, waiting for the right moment to speak, to pitch her off balance. His hand jumps to life, pointing to her heart. It stutters. “Shot him in cold blood.”

The smallest smile dances on her face. If he did not know her so well, he would have missed it.

“You’ll have a hard time proving that. Every Fenian from here to Kilkenny is more than happy to claim responsibility. Anyway, Campbell always spoke most highly of my efforts to Mr. Churchill. He even made sure I got a commendation.”

“Did he? It was good work you did in Birmingham last time, you must be proud. Got it framed on your wall?” He’s still trying to wrong-foot her. He should know better.

“No.” She tilts her head back and blows a column of smoke toward the ceiling. “I threw it in the Thames.” She crushes out the cigarette and stands. Her red coat folds around her. “I’ll see you again when you’re stronger. With Mr. Churchill’s instructions.”

She can’t help it. She leans over him. Her hair brushes the bandage on his chest and she thinks she can feel his fingers clench in the fabric of her coat. She puts her lips against his ear. His flesh is fevered; it wants to swallow her whole.

“Get well, Tommy. And soon.”

In a click of heeled shoes and a flicker of red, she is gone and the hospital room is quiet and white once more. The only sign she was ever there is the flush of his skin where her lips touched, and the still-smoking cigarette in the ash tray.

XXX

Churchill’s office is oppressively grand. The men gather like bespoke vultures, swilling port from crystal decanters and avoiding looking directly at her. The Colonial Secretary has just finished reading a letter aloud.

The men shuffle, remembering the war that Tommy has recalled with his words. He always was good with words. He could kill you with just one or two. _Away it goes._ She shakes her head, banishing his voice.

“Well?” growls Churchill, chewing on a cigar.

It takes Grace a moment to realize he is talking to her. She rises from her chair in the corner, lifting her chin slightly to cover her nerves. Her voice is soft, but it carries.

“I don’t think his terms are unreasonable, sir. I don’t see why an export license can’t be granted.”

A man in a gray jacket snorts. “Who is this Brummie gangster to make demands at all? If he cannot follow orders, dispose of him.”

Her eyes harden.

“With respect, _sir_, Thomas Shelby was chosen specifically for this assignment because he researches his adversaries, not to mention his illegal activities will ensure the assassination will never be connected with a political agenda. Can we really be surprised when he decides to research us? Or that he requires assurances in exchange for what we are asking him to do? Indeed, would you not do the same, in his position?”

The man looks surprised. “And who are you?”

“I am the field agent in Birmingham. I am Thomas Shelby’s handler.”

“You?” He smiles around the room, sipping the whisky in his glass. “Sure you’re up to…_handling _him?”

Some of the others snigger into their own drinks. Her jaw is clenched tight now, her teeth almost bared.

Churchill must sense the tension in the room for he clears his throat. “Gentlemen,” he says with the easy command of a man used to being obeyed. “This will not mark the first time that Miss Dunn has managed Thomas Shelby for the Crown. I have every confidence in a second success. Now, you suggest we grant the license, Miss Dunn?”

“I do, sir.”

“Very well.” The man in gray looks ready to protest, but Churchill is not finished. “He shall have it, until such time as our business has been transacted. Afterwards, the Shelby Brothers Limited won’t really have any use for a license. Does that satisfy all of us, gentlemen?”

The vultures nod. The meeting is ended.

XXX

She has the train compartment all to herself. Her government stipend not particularly generous, but she doesn’t want to be disturbed. The ride from London back to Birmingham is short and she needs every inch of track to think. It is raining, but only half-heartedly. This is London rain; a vague annoyance.

So Tommy won’t live past his usefulness. Churchill as good as said it. It doesn’t surprise her. You can’t force a man to assassinate a high-ranking official and let him disappear into the smog.

She traces a raindrop across the window.

No doubt, Churchill will instruct her to do it herself. Unbidden, she sees him in her mind, the man she loved. She knows him as she knows her own face; every tattoo and scar, every jump of his eyebrows and every beat of his heart. Could she really do it? Could she kill him?

“Fuck,” she whispers.

She could.

But she knows already that she won’t.

XXX

She has taken lodgings in Birmingham proper, far from the industrialized claustrophobia of Small Heath. She should be safe here. No one will recognize her. She hopes.

Her flat is small and dingy. The only furniture is a bed, a chipped wardrobe, and a tiny kitchen table with a single chair. She could still only offer rum or tea. It doesn’t matter. She expects no company.

She is leaving for the precinct when he says her name. She whirls, instinctively reaching for her Browning. Tommy Shelby stands at his leisure against the bricking of the alley, smoking a cigarette. Save for a half-moon cut on his cheekbone, his injuries are mostly healed. She supposes London is good for that; there is much to distract there.

“Making a point, are you Thomas?” He has startled her, and she is defensive. Her accent is thicker in her anger. “That you know where I live?”

He smiles and says nothing. His eyes drift away from her, looking far over her head as if she is nothing to him; as if he had never once held her in his arms. As if they had never killed men together. _Look at me, _she wants to scream. _Look at me you bastard! I’m the only one who knows you._

“Going to send someone ‘round to murder me in my sleep?”

He’s looking at her now. His face is so close if she leans forward she could kiss him. She can count the fine freckles like stars in a constellation. Her throat is so tight it aches.

“If anyone’s going to kill you, Grace, it’ll be me. Make no mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes, Tommy. That’s what you do.”

For a split second, she thinks he’s going to strike her. But it’s only the cigarette he’s offering. On the paper, her lips touch the impression of his. She inhales deeply and hands it back. Their fingers brush together and she swears she hears a blackbird sing, though there are no songbirds in Birmingham.

“It seems Churchill was impressed with my letter. When you’re back in London you should stop by the docks. There’s one with my name on it now. The license came straightaway, signed and stamped and everything. Tell him _thank you_. And you can tell me just who it is I’ll be killing for him.”

“My telegram was very clear. We’ll discuss our business at the appointed time and in the appointed place. You’ll have to wait until Sunday.”

“All business, no pleasure, eh? Used to be you knew how to mix the two.”

Oh, she could push him against a wall right here and now, but where would that get them? His face is still so agonizingly near. She is thrumming like a harp. Can he hear? He leans in just the smallest bit. Her lips part. But it is only to speak.

“Good day, Mr. Shelby.”

She does not look back.

Tommy Shelby is just a shadow against a wall. His cigarette has her lipstick on it. He does not toss it away.

XXX

Sunday comes. The appointed time and the appointed place. It does not go well. She has never seen him so angry. If only she could have explained it without Irene O’Donnell and Donal Henry sitting there and laughing in his face. But Churchill was clear. He had to be made to see how deep the Crown had its hooks in him. He had to understand the stakes. When he walks out, she follows him into the hallway.

“Tommy!” she calls. She won’t chase after him. This is the job. She agreed to it and it has to be done. “Tommy!”

The long black coat stops at the end of the hall and turns. He strides toward her like death.

“I want no part of this. So take that Browning out of your handbag, Grace, and shoot me right here, because I won’t do it.”

He is all fractured energy, his black hair wild and his eyes desperate and huge. She is still and serene. They are sunlight and shadow. She does not flinch away.

“You blew up my fucking pub!” he shouts. His face is harsh and twisted in his rage. “It was you the whole fucking time! It was you. All of it was you…” He can’t seem to find words.

Again, he is close enough to kiss. If she touches him this time he will come apart. She crushes her hands together to keep them from reaching for his face. She speaks instead.

“What about your export license? It was only granted in exchange for your cooperation. Without it, you lose Camden Town and _all _of your business there. Billy Kitchen and his boys, Solomons, the Eden Club, the racetrack expansion…it’ll all be gone. But do this, and the license stands. You will have complete political immunity. Your London business can carry on.” She cannot believe how calm she is. How easy to say these words and know that he will do as she says.

He stands there like a wild animal backed into a corner. His nostrils flare and his lips are pulled so tightly over his teeth he seems to be grinning. He drags a hand through his shorn hair and turns away before wheeling back around. He hates her, oh yes, he hates her.

“Donal Henry is a spy. He is working for the irregulars against the pro-treaty Irish. Get rid of him and I will kill your man.”

She holds his gaze. It’s not a lie. He never did lie to her; that was her specialty.

“The Garrison wasn’t me, Tommy. I would never do that. I loved that pub,” she says finally. “The Garrison was Churchill’s idea. I wanted to find another way. But yes, the rest of it…the rest of it was me.”

She hands him a government file and just like that, it’s done. Field Marshal Henry Russell is sentenced to die. But still, he cannot walk away from her. Not yet. Perhaps, not ever.

“Why?” he asks.

Isn’t that the question? What was it that made her accept Churchill’s assignment? She could have walked away. She could have reasonably walked back into his arms one day if she’d been patient enough. What was it that had made her agree to this? Was it really to see him again? To be near him? Perhaps. But like her, that is not quite honest. It was to escape that dull desk in the Home Secretary’s office and the silly, idle chatter of the other women. It was to put the idea of America from her mind once and for all. It was the chance to use a gun again, to act with the authority of the Crown. It was, more than anything, because he had wagered her heart and all her love on the toss of a goddamn fucking coin.

“Why?” he asks again. His voice is ragged, raw. It hurts to hear him. “Why, Grace?” There are almost tears in his beautiful eyes. She almost reaches out to brush them away.

“Because this is who I am.”

And it’s true. Tommy Shelby will never say it, but he loves her for it as much as he hates her.

XXX

She kills Donal Henry herself. It wasn’t so hard to get him on his own. He had no reason to mistrust her and had looked genuinely surprised when she’d pulled out her pistol and shot him in the chest. Getting cleaned up afterward, now that was the tricky bit. Coal gets everywhere and she’d had to draw three baths before her skin was pink and pale again.

As she sits soaking in the last tubful, she lights a cigarette and leans her head against the cold metal. _It really does get easier,_ she thinks before ducking under the water. She holds her breath until her lungs are ready to burst and her will to live forces her upwards into the lamplight.

XXX

They meet in a church. A Protestant church this time; no holy water or hand-waving to give her away. She always arrives much too early. She is always afraid he won’t show. In the beginning, when all this had started, she had thought that he would not be able to keep away from her. Self-assured, she had presumed to believe she had stamped herself onto his heart; that he felt for her what she felt for him, that this would be a weakness she could exploit.

Now she is not so sure. He does not stand so close anymore. His eyes do not flick to her collarbone or to her slender hands. He is all professionalism now. Oh yes, he cooperates. A date has been set. Everything appears to be in place. But his answers to her questions are too clipped. His movements are too controlled. He is, in point of fact, _too_ cooperative. Something will have to be done, and soon.

“Polly knows you’re back,” he says once, offhand but calibrated to penetrate her mask of cool indifference. “She reckons I ought to put a bullet in you and be done. Ada agrees.”

Grace drums her fingernails against the oak pew. She wants to know about the coppers outside Field Marshal Russell’s house, and he won’t give her a straight answer. She wants him to touch her.

“Everyone agrees, come to think of it. Arthur’s the only one has anything else to say. And Finn. He remembers it was you who got me out of the Garrison during the police raid. He used to ask when you were coming back. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

In the candy-colored light of the stained-glass windows, the straight planes of her face are softened—he still watches her, but only when she can’t see. He thinks she might be sorry. But she never says.

XXX

One afternoon, crossing from her chair to the powder room in the Birmingham precinct, she catches sight of Moss’s abandoned newspaper lying open to the racing pages. She might have walked past, but the horse was grey and the man was dark and she recalled another pale horse moving through city streets.

There is also a woman in the photograph; small, posh, pretty. He’ll fuck her. Perhaps he has already. Her heart twists in a flash of blinding jealousy and she does not see the horse’s name. She tosses the newspaper in the waste bin and rings the telephone operator.

“Winston Churchill, Colonial Secretary’s office, please.”

She is patched through immediately.

“Sir, it’s Agent Dunn. I’m not sure he’s going to go through with it. But I have an idea, sir. I know how to make him fall in line.”

It’s the worst thing she’s ever done.

XXX

The letter comes on monogrammed paper. _Shelby Company Limited_ stares her down from the top of the page.

_Dear Grace,_

_I have something I need your help with. Come to the Garrison tomorrow evening, ten o’clock. Don’t worry, I’ve made sure you’re allowed through. Don’t let Moss know you’re coming._

_Signed,_

_Thomas Shelby_

XXX

She has dressed with the utmost care. Beneath her red coat, she is wearing silk as pale and pearlescent as the inside of a shell. Her hair is curled and golden though longer than is the fashion. It’s always suited her.

Small Heath is as close and crowded as she remembers. The factories still belch smoke and ash still falls from the sky like snow in December. The Garrison is lighted like a beacon, drawing her forward. She is still not sure if she is walking to her death. She is not afraid.

She knocks on the frosted glass door and he throws it wide, sliding the bolt back into place when she is within. They are the only ones there. Presumably, the fact that its proprietor is currently waiting to be hung in the London jail means that the Garrison is closed for business.

He is dark and solid against the gold and crystal. This cannot be the Garrison. This cannot be where she sang on chairs. This cannot be where she emptied brass spittoons and dipped pints. This cannot be where he gave her a gun and failed to see she already knew how to use it. This cannot be where she fell in love.

“So?” he says now, watching her wondering eyes as she turns on the spot, taking it all in. “What do you think?”

“It’s…” she tries to think of something polite to say and comes up empty.

He nearly laughs. “I don’t like it either. But I don’t think about you when I come in here anymore, so that’s something. What do you want to drink?”

“Whisky. Irish.”

She slides out of her coat. The red is reflected on the ceiling. She takes the glass he holds out to her.

“How about another toast then, Grace?”

“May misfortune follow you the rest of your life, but never catch up.”

A smile. A true smile.

“Amen,” he says softly and downs his drink.

The whisky is hot and acrid, but she swallows it all.

“Another,” Tommy says when she tries to protest. “And then to business.”

He doesn’t know she arranged for Arthur to be stood up in order to force his cooperation. He doesn’t know because what he wants is for her to speak to Churchill to get his brother out of jail. He thinks it was all Sabini. He doesn’t know she’s been courting the Italian coppers for weeks, gathering all the intel she can, suggesting this or that in the hopes of nudging Sabini her way. Get Arthur out and Tommy Shelby swears the job is as good as done. Somehow, she has agreed. And somehow, they are dancing to the wheedling rhythm of a jazz band on the phonograph. Somehow they are holding one another; his arms are just as warm as she remembers and he has already traced the scar at her hairline with his thumb.

And then, she is not sure how; there’s been too much whisky, his mouth is on hers and his hard, warm fingers are sliding over the silk of her dress, looking for a closure to open wide.

“Tommy…” she breathes. His lips are against her neck now. She kisses his ear. “Don’t, Tommy,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it. He’s found the buttons at the back of her gown. “Tommy…” she tries one last time. “Tommy, I’ll break your heart.”

He pulls away to look hard into her eyes. There’s no hatred there, only understanding and something that might have once been love.

“Ah, that...already broken.”

Then he kisses her tenderly, possessively, and there’s no time for breathing any more. She gives up. She gives in.

She gives him back her heart.

XXX

Sometime later, they are mostly dressed but yet unwilling to leave each other behind. They are dancing again; swaying softly in time to music only they can hear. It comes out before she can stop it.

“He’s going to have you shot after you’ve done it. He’s going to have you killed Tommy.”

He smooths the hair back from her forehead, lingering on the scar almost reverently.

“I know.”

She leans into him and he holds her close to his heart. She can hear his voice rumbling in his chest when he speaks.

“And if I die, so do you. I’ve arranged it all with John and Sergeant Moss.”

She is crying into his shirt. When she is gone, he will still smell the salt of her tears. Is she crying for him or for herself? Or for what the world has turned them into? Neither of them will ever be certain.

She very gently puts him away from her and goes to gather up her coat.

"Stay," he says. His shirt is half-buttoned. His eyes are almost pleading. "Stay with me."

"No, Tommy. I have work to do.”

She stands framed in the doorway of the Garrison. Outside, the ash has started to fall. It sticks in her hair and crowns her. Queen of his heart. This is how he will remember her: golden, unyielding, with tears on her face. This is how he will love her: always.

XXX

Derby Day dawns so crisp and beautifully it almost makes her sick. Churchill is not pleased at the change of venue. She had thought it rather clever, a countermove befitting a gangster. She can just see John sticking a pipe bomb into the mail drop and sauntering away. Churchill has ordered her to stand down; she is not to go to the races. She's not sure he trusts her to bring this one home. He doesn't miss much, Churchill. Anyway, she is not his only operative. She has led their lamb to the slaughter. Now it’s the wolves’ turn. They forget, all women are wolves.

She chooses a gray coat today, over a sensible dark-colored skirt and jacket. Nothing conspicuous. No one will look her way. No one will see her coming but the man who is already looking for her.

XXX

The call to the post echoes through the Epsom grounds. The hum of excited voices and clinking glassware slowly fades from the bar tent. When she looks to her left she will see him; red lining his fine wool coat and razor blades glinting in the peak of his cap. They are alone. If it weren’t for the announcer’s voice, they could be the only two people in the world.

“Here to check up on me, Grace? Making sure I’m really going to go through with it.”

She can’t seem to make her mouth work. All she wants to do is look at him, just look and memorize every line of him so she can hold him in her mind forever. Dimly, she hears the national anthem start up on the course.

“Grace?” he asks, and those chilly blue eyes are all she can see.

“This is the end, Tommy,” she says finally. “This is goodbye.”

Something passes over his pale face; a shadow, some premonition of what is to come.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you, Thomas Shelby. That’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s always been the thing. I love you and I’m saying it now so you can hear it, because it’s the only chance we’ll have.”

The black coat moves closer. The cap shadows his eyes so she cannot see what he is thinking.

“After today, our business is done.”

“I’ll be dead, you mean,” he interrupts. "Is that what you mean, Grace?"

She looks at the ground littered with entrance tickets and programs. One of the horses’ names catches her eye: _Grace’s Secret _printed in neat black letters_. _Her hair swings forward to sheath her face. _God, they got close. So fucking close. _He lifts her chin with his square fingers. He cups her face and she holds his wrists. She feels his pulse strong and stubborn. _Let time stop here,_ she thinks. _Just give me a little longer with him._

The anthem is almost over. Their time is up.

“There never was any chance for us, Tommy. We had our half-hour in Heaven. The next time we see each other it’ll be in Hell.”

She kisses him once. Twice. Three times then never again.

“Grace, I…”

She is almost gone, out into the sunlight. Even he can’t stop her now.

“Don’t say it, Tommy. I don’t want to hear.”

XXX

The Irishman will tell her some of it later; about a field of mud and an empty grave. He owed her a favor, this Irishman. The police keep excellent records, but it’s not so very hard for a pretty secretary to expunge a few charges or lose a few files. This Irishman will tell her how Thomas Shelby smoked his last cigarette and spoke of a woman—a woman he loved—before climbing out of a grave where two government agents are now buried.

She will smile to hear it. Then she will pick up the telephone and she will tell Churchill that the job is finished. When he asks about their Birmingham man, she will tell the truth…most of it. It will not be clear how exactly Tommy escaped from that grave. They will probably put her in jail, where she will wait, alone, until there is another job for her to do. Or perhaps she can convince them that Thomas Shelby is of more use to the Crown alive. You never know. She is a good agent.

This is her job and she chose it. Not him.

That was the promise she made herself when she came back from the Garrison: save him and she would walk away. Her Birmingham flat is already bare, the key already returned. She won’t be going back. She will let Tommy get on with it. Yes, that was the promise.

It is a promise made to be broken.

XXX

Somewhere…in the past maybe, or even the future some hundreds of years from now when they are both dead and born again, when she is just a barmaid and he is a man who smiles; somewhere maybe they are together. Maybe they have found one another again, as they always will, over and over until they get it right. Maybe they are married; with children even. Boys with sunlight in their hair and girls with his pale eyes. Somewhere in this long-lost past or far-flung future, she runs to meet him when he comes home and they sit together in front of a fire and make each other laugh. He will say things like _I need you, Grace. I love you._ She says things like _what time do you call this, eh?_ Their lives are simple. Perhaps they own a pub. There are pictures of racehorses on the walls. They do not carry guns or broken hearts. In this life, wherever it is, their love is true.

In the life she lives right now, it is another day in the service of the Crown. Grace Dunn sits at her kitchen table and loads her pistol. The slender golden bullets fit perfectly into their carriages. The gun feels natural in her hand. She snaps the chamber closed and stands to pull on her coat. The mirror hung beside the door reflects her truest self back to her: her hair fine as silk, the nose that always was just slightly crooked, the cool eyes that reveal the iron she is shaped from. There is nothing soft about her. Her beauty is an illusion. She is Death as much as he ever was. There is a shadow of him that hangs on her; they are, in so many ways, the same. Her hat hides much of her face, turning her into a mystery. It’s become something of a professional habit now, but she never did like to reveal too much. You lose yourself that way. She slides the Browning into the inside pocket of her dark coat. It rests against her heart, against the memory of Thomas Shelby.

There is no helping what they have become. There is no changing what has come before. They are who they are. She can only walk forward, one foot in front of the other, watching and waiting to see what each new day will bring. She loved him once. She loves him still. She will save a bullet for him as he will surely save one for her. She will kill him or she will keep him. Only time will tell.

She takes a breath and walks out the door.

There she goes.

Away they go.


End file.
